Page 90 of The Incredible Ordinary

A friend wouldn’t lie in bed at night and do their very best to fight off images of sliding their fingers through his hair. Leaning forward. So close. Erasing the distance between our lips. Kissing him for real. I want to know what it would feel like. The curiosity is keeping me up at night, making me toss and turn and scream into the pillow from helpless frustration because I’m not sure if I want the images to stop or if I want them to continue torturing me, feeding me ideas of what could be.

My imagination runs wild in those dark hours.

My palms skating over hot skin.

Breaths hitching.

Hungry kisses.

Soft moans.

My fingers fisting the sheets.

I’m hot and bothered all night through, ignoring my total and frustrating lack of competence, because what the hell do I really know about sex anyway?

I’ve had it, yeah. But the sex I had was the kind of sex I have in my head. It was the rushed, fumbling exploration of two teenagers at first, and then the messy, complicated moments between two people who didn’t know what they wanted but were beginning to figure out it wasn’t the same thing. Moments of trying to reconnect through our bodies but never quite succeeding.

Then, after, random dates, sex after the third one. Good, but always with the slight, nagging feeling that something was missing. That there should be something more. Some kind of hidden switch everybody else has managed to locate but me. Late-night thoughts that disappear during the day, but every now and then come out to play when you’re sleepless and staring at the ceiling.

Now my fingertips are buzzing. Now, I’m sure there’ssomethingthere. Like I’m about to figure something out. A nagging sense. A hunch of sorts.

There’s something there.

That’s fucking stupid. I’m making things up in my head. Maybe my life has become so mundane and I’m so stuck in my routine that I’m inventing excitement.

Only I’m not unhappy with my life. Ilikemy life. I’m not searching for an escape hatch. I’m not desperate for something different. More.

So… that excitement, the rapid heartbeat, the air getting thick in my lungs, the feverish rush of my blood… Does that mean it was real?

But then if it was real, what—or rather who—made it real? Was it Milán? Or am I just so starved for intimacy that anybody could’ve gotten that reaction out of me?

It’s possible. I haven’t been on a date in close to a year. Haven’t had sex in longer.

I close my eyes, lean on the counter in front of me and let my head drop forward. That’s it, right?Took you long enough to figure it out. Fucking go get laid, Jordan.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Milán’s face swims in my mind. The cocky grin. The way he moves his body. There’s an almost lazy quality to it, but it’s obvious that beneath that, he’s alert. His eyes. His shoulders. His forearms. His lips.

He haunts me.

I blink and jerk, snapping out of it.

Heart beating too loudly again.

What the fuck am I doing?

It’s high time I put all this to rest. Only I don’t know how. It’s something unsolved, and I can’t seem to let it go, not for days and days on end by now.

I stare at the ceiling and try to still my thoughts, but it’s not happening. It doesn’t help that I’m off work today. I was hoping I could cover for somebody, but nobody took me up on it, so it’s just me and my thoughts.

I need help, only, who am I going to ask? There’s nobody I’d feel comfortable discussing this with. My family? That would make things really uncomfortable.

The only one who wouldn’t bat an eye at whatever I threw at him is Milán. That’ll be a conversation.Hey, Milán? I might have something like a crush on you. Or I’m just desperate to get laid. One or the other. Thoughts?

I blink. Is that what’s happening? I’ve developed a crush on Milán?

No.

That’s…